


Tonight Tommy, Erin, and Alyssa are Pod Save America

by LittleMousling



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 18:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Tommy's going to kill them, but he's also going to give a really fucking great toast at their wedding.





	Tonight Tommy, Erin, and Alyssa are Pod Save America

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have very little recollection of writing this; I think I was tipsily chatficcing. I'm tipsy again and found it in my GDrive, so ... here it is, I guess!

They're on tour when Lovett goes into heat.

Tommy's actually the first one to notice. He's a beta, but he grew up with mostly alpha family—his mom, his sister—and now he's with Hanna, and so he's sometimes the most live to dynamics, of the three of them. Lovett likes to pretend none of it affects him; Jon likes to downplay his status. 

"Uh," Tommy says, making sure Elijah and the rest of the staff are out of earshot. Lovett won't appreciate this regardless, but he'll hate it much more if someone beyond the three of them hears it. "I think ... we should get Lovett to a hotel. Like, right away."

That's enough to make Jon sniff the air, to make Lovett fold his arms and lift his chin, fighting it with his attitude as much as he's fruitlessly trying to fight it with his body. "I'm fine."

"You're not," Jon says, eyes blinking closed as the scent hits him. "You're—I'll call Chris. She can book us something, uh, appropriate."

"I'm _fine_ ," Lovett repeats. "Don't—we have a show tomorrow."

"I think Jon and I have a show tomorrow," Tommy says, grimacing. "I'll call Dan. Maybe he can fly down."

"Don't—" Lovett's _angry_ , as angry as Tommy's seen him. "I can do the fucking show." 

"Did, uh. Did your suppressants fail?" Jon asks, and Tommy thinks very seriously about kicking him. Sometimes, Jon is the worst person in the world at knowing how to manage Lovett.

Lovett doesn't blow up, though. He just turns and walks away, into the shade of a nearby alley. Tommy sighs, goes to call Chris. He's not taking charge of this problem. They have staff for a reason.

***

Lovett stalks into the lobby of the hotel, and Jon follows, trying not to. 

Lovett's scent is strong now, enough that Jon can't breathe without it hitting him like a wave. He needs to stay farther back. He needs to be in another fucking hotel. This one says it has scent-proofed rooms, but what if they're lying? What if they're under-regulated, and Lovett gets in there, and every alpha in the whole area can smell him?

Jon will just—Jon will sleep outside the door, if he has to.

"Alyssa caught a late plane," Tommy says, suddenly, behind him. "Erin's driving, she wasn't too far. And Dan's going to book a flight for tomorrow. So we'll be fine."

"That's too many," Jon says, vaguely. He can't look away from Lovett. He can't focus on anything except Lovett, sitting in an angry lump on the lobby furniture.

"Uh," Tommy says. "Well—just in case, you know."

"Uh-huh," Jon manages. Lovett's making a pained face, brows scrunching together. He _needs_ —well. He needs to get up to the fucking hotel room. "What's taking so long? Lovett shouldn't have to sit there."

"We've been in here, like, ninety seconds," Tommy says. "Chris and Corinne are handling it."

"They're not handling it well enough," Jon says. His face is hot; his whole body is hot. "They're leaving Lovett out here like, who gives a fuck, like—"

"Ohhh-kay," Tommy says, and steers Jon towards a chair on the other side of the lobby. "Take a breath. It's okay. Lovett's gonna have a room in the next—right now. See Corinne with the key cards? He's fine. He'll be fine."

"He probably didn't pack for this," Jon says, eyes still locked on Lovett. "He might not have what he needs—"

"Then Corinne will go get it," Tommy says, gently. "Lovett's being well taken care of. I promise."

Jon doesn't believe it. If Lovett were being taken care of, he wouldn't look like _that_ , hunched over on his walk towards the elevators. "I'm gonna—"

"That's not a good idea," Tommy says, but Jon's past his reach, race-walking towards Lovett and Corinne. 

"Lovett," Jon says, breathless. "We can probably—we can find a better hotel. Or—I can pick up supplies. Whatever you need."

The first thing he notices is the way Lovett's hands ball into fists, and then the way Lovett's sucking his lips between his teeth, biting down on them. "Jon," Corinne says gently, but he ignores her. 

"I'll—water? Do you need water? Or ice. I can get ice, there's—or. I bet this stupid place has shitty pillows. I'll get you better—"

" _Jon_ ," Corinne says again, and it's echoed by Tommy, behind him. "Lovett, get on the fucking elevator already."

There are elevator doors open just ahead of them. Jon _can't_ let Lovett get on there without him. Anything could happen in there, or when he gets out. This hotel isn't secure enough. He can't fucking believe he hasn't arranged to get security for Lovett, some kind of permanent beta guard. "I'll protect you," he says, too fast, and Lovett's eyes catch on his. Lovett's pupils are blown wide; it changes the whole look of his face. He looks—he looks like—

"Jon," Tommy says, and then there are elevator doors between Jon and Lovett, and Jon, for the first time since adolescence, has to stop himself from punching someone in the face. 

"Tommy," Jon says, very carefully. "Don't touch me."

Tommy holds his hands up. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. You want your key card? You could, uh. Lie down. Get some food."

Jon takes a deep breath, and another. He takes the card. "Yeah. Yeah."

In his room, he finally starts to calm down, come back to himself. The air is controlled; there's nothing of Lovett's scent in it. He's fine. He's going to have to apologize his ass off to Corinne, and to Tommy, but he's fine. 

His phone chirps. _814_ , from Lovett.

Yeah, fuck Tommy and Corinne.

814 is at the end of the corridor, in a supremely scentless hallway. Maybe this hotel really does do their ventilation the way they're supposed to. Maybe this room really would have been safe for Lovett.

Jon doesn't fucking care. 

Lovett answers the door in a shirt that's more sweat-damp than not, and in Tommy Johns. Jon sucks in a breath and gets the scent of him, full-on, nothing between them now. "I can—still—I can leave," Jon says, biting it out.

Lovett just turns and walks back into the room, and Jon follows him, door slamming behind him. He stops only long enough to throw the chain on, and the deadbolt. Fucking _no one_ is disturbing them. Jon would kill them with his bare hands, if he had to. 

The last time Jon smelled Lovett in heat was 2011—just the edge of it, before Lovett sent him a terse email asking to go home early. _No problem_ , Jon had sent back, and it had seemed like no problem then, to send Lovett home to his boyfriend. 

Current Jon thinks past Jon should be strung up in the fucking town square for treachery. Lovett's _boyfriend_ —like anyone could treat Lovett the way he deserves, except Jon.

"Why are you dressed?" Jon says, barely voiced. He doesn't need to say it; Lovett has to _know_ how ridiculous it is, that he's wearing clothes. They don't need that. They need the fucking opposite of that. 

"You're in—" Lovett says, and shakes his head. His arms are shaking, too, when he peels out of his t-shirt. 

Jon _is_ wearing too much, can't remember why any of it is on him. The shirt goes, and then the shoes. His socks require a true feat of balance, in the circumstances, to remove, and then suddenly Lovett's in front of him, hands on Jon's fly. "Let me—this is so—" Lovett mutters, peeling it open.

"I love you," Jon says, and Lovett tells him, "No talking. You can talk—after."

Jon can live without talking, when Lovett's right here, smelling like—this. "Yeah," he agrees, and Lovett grumbles, "That's still talking." He's running a hand up Jon's thigh, though, so Jon doesn't much care. 

"Take your—" Jon says, finishing the sentence by hooking his fingers into the waistband of Lovett's underwear. Lovett sucks in a breath as Jon peels them off, carefully stretching the front over Lovett's erection.

Lovett's naked. Naked, and hard, and smelling like—like he _needs_ it. "Get—get on the bed," Jon says.

"Just because I'm an omega doesn't mean I'm gonna do whatever you say," Lovett says, folding his arms.

Jon doesn't have enough brain to deal with this. "Okay, I'll get on the bed," he says, instead. "You do whatever you want."

Lovett makes a face, and goes and gets on the bed.

Jon's still wearing pants, for some fucking unfathomable reason. He gets them off, and his briefs, and crawls up towards Lovett. He has enough awareness not to just launch himself into it; he says, "You, um. Is this okay?"

"No, I sent you my hotel room number because I wanted french fries," Lovett says, voice tight. "Don't—no questions. Just get your dick out."

Jon looks down. It's pretty well out.

"You know what I mean," Lovett says, crossly. "Just—do it."

"Okay," Jon says, leaning in to kiss him. Lovett's palm meets his face, not gently. 

"That's not what I—" Lovett says, and then his thighs are spreading around Jon's hips. "You're such a—"

Lovett isn't finishing any sentences, but Jon's getting enough of an idea from the scent, the impossible wetness Jon can almost feel, almost _taste_. "God," he says, and can't keep himself from moving downward on the bed, scenting it out.

"That's not what I meant either," Lovett says, but his voice is thready, and he's not pulling Jon back up. Jon can live with this. He can live with anything, if he gets to—if he gets to taste Lovett, lick up into him, get him ready for Jon's cock.

It's a struggle to bypass Lovett's dick. Jon rubs his cheek against it, at least, like a promise, and then he's moving further down, settling between Lovett's wide-spread thighs. "You can just," Lovett says, but it's barely anything, barely even audible, and Jon's already licking up into the heat of him, the dripping wetness.

Lovett tastes—Lovett is—

Jon can admit, now, in the fervor of his animal mind, that he's thought about this. About how Lovett would taste; about how he'd feel. About how he'd sound, begging for Jon's knot.

This is better.

Lovett's moving, enough that it imperils Jon's ability to keep his tongue where he wants it. He grabs for Lovett's hips, pins them down to the bed so he can focus. "Oh—okay," Lovett murmurs. Jon's licking up as much of Lovett's slick as he can, as though he can get it all, as though Lovett isn't just making more for every lick. He needs it, though; he needs to taste how much Lovett wants him. This. Wants this—wants an alpha, whoever it is. Jon takes a breath, focuses on that. Any alpha would do—Lovett just texted the nearest one. 

Fine. Fine. Jon can be the best immediately available alpha for him, at least. 

He snakes an arm around Lovett's thigh to grasp his dick. He can't stroke the way he wants to, but he can hold it, like a promise. Lovett's hand comes down to layer over his, their fingers lacing together, and Jon groans and sucks on Lovett's rim, gets a couple fingers from his other hand up into Lovett.

"Don't—tease," Lovett forces out. "Jon—"

"Yeah, babe," Jon tells him, and kisses Lovett's inner thigh. "I'm here, I won't make you wait."

"You're already," Lovett says, and loses the rest of it to a moan, as Jon crawls up over him, dick running up Lovett's thigh.

"What'd'you want?" Jon mumbles. "I can—I don't have to knot you, Lovett. Tell me—"

Lovett groans, puts a hand over his eyes. His hips are rocking up towards Jon's. "Just—"

"Just what," Jon says, needing to hear it. His cock's so close to—but he's holding off, he can hold off. He can wait. He needs Lovett to say it.

"Just fucking, please," Lovett says, not coherent, not _specific_. Not what Jon wants.

"Ask me for it," Jon says. It feels like he'll die, maybe, waiting for Lovett to ask. It feels like he has to.

Lovett keens, high and needy. Jon's filled with a surge of protectiveness, of _if anyone else heard that, I'll kill them_. "Jon," Lovett pants. "Jon, Jon."

"Yeah," Jon says, and kisses the hot, damp side of Lovett's throat. "Ask me."

"Need—need your knot, please," Lovett gasps, and one of his legs twines around Jon's. "Please—"

"Yeah, baby," Jon says, and he's lining up and pushing in almost without conscious thought. It's easy, easy—it's like Lovett was built for him. Lovett's slick and open and when Jon pushes into him, Lovett goes still, except for the way a breath sucks in through his lips.

"Baby," Jon manages, and then they're both quiet, focused on this, just this. Jon plants his knees where he needs them to fuck gently into Lovett, and Lovett's fingernails catch on Jon's back, holding him close. 

Jon's stupidly close to knotting; he feels like he's been on the verge of it since he got the text. He wants to give Lovett the fuck of his life, but he's dizzily certain that fuck might be—next time, or the time after that. Right now, right here, their first time, is going to be quick, too good to last. "Love you," Jon says again, and this time Lovett doesn't object, just wraps a leg higher around Jon's waist and tugs him down. 

The sense of knotting inevitability rolls through Jon's body, and he pushes in, trying to hold steady, trying not to pull a half-formed knot out of Lovett. It's a struggle. He pushes his face into Lovett's neck and breathes in the scent of him, the need to protect him and keep him safe, and that helps a little. "Oh," Lovett says, and again: "Oh—ohh, that's—"

Jon's hips twitch, but it's done, now; his knot's too big for Lovett to release him.

"That's so—Jon—" Lovett's voice is wet, caught in his throat.

They're pinned, now. Jon's picturing two, maybe three days stretching out ahead of them, needy and sweat-soaked and with Lovett's slick splattering their thighs, but right now, it's just this, the intensity of Lovett's body holding Jon close. 

Lovett's cock is hard between them, and Jon has the ability, now, to focus on it, to run a hand between them and give Lovett the handful of soft strokes he needs to come. Lovett gasps, biting at Jon's shoulder, his fingers tight on Jon's shoulder. "Ye—yes."

"Yeah, baby," Jon tells him, softly. "Just like that."

"I usually hate this part," Lovett says, softly, and then, "Not the—not the orgasm. The knotting. It's so, uh. So biologically ridiculous, and inconvenient, and—"

"But," Jon says, because he has some intellect just at the moment, before libidinous obsession hits him again.

" _But_ ," Lovett concedes. "Not—not right now."

Jon knows what he means. "Not with you," he tells Lovett's curls, soft, maybe not even loud enough for Lovett to hear him.

"Not with you," Lovett says back, almost as soft. Jon's glad, and terrified, that Lovett heard. "Not—not with you."

"Okay," Jon says. He strokes a hand down Lovett's thigh, lets his fingertips find the stretched rim of Lovett's hole. "Okay. I've got you."

Lovett takes a deep breath, sighs it out. "Yeah," he says. "I know."

"Could've texted—" Jon doesn't know. "Corinne would have gone to get you supplies."

"Yeah," Lovett says. "Let's not talk about this."

Jon tilts his hips, just enough that Lovett has to feel it. "Now's good," he says. "We're both here."

"That's the problem," Lovett mutters. "Jon, don't—"

"Just say it," Jon says, feeling reckless. "Just tell me."

"I don't—" Lovett starts, and Jon's breath catches. He doesn't want the end of that sentence; he wishes he hadn't asked, suddenly. He wishes he could detach, suddenly. "Jon, I—"

"No, never—never mind—" The words leave him too fast, half-voiced, and he knows Lovett will hear the fear in them, the sorrow. He can’t help but be splayed open, right now; he can’t help but feel _don’t tell me, don’t tell me, don’t tell me_. He knows, he _knows_ he’s the most convenient alpha, but he just needs it to be tacit between them, right now.

"I love you," Lovett interrupts. "I don't know how to—I love you."

Jon takes a deep breath, lets it sink in. "You love me." Lovett makes a frustrated noise. "You—I love _you_."

"You mentioned," Lovett says, drily. "Although anything you say while I'm in heat is pretty obviously, uh, less than reliable."

Jon can't pull Lovett any closer, but he tries. "I'm really fucking reliable, Lovett. I'm the most reliable guy you know."

"I know Tommy," Lovett says, but relents. "This is so stupid. This is like every fucking omega-flick rom-com—"

"I don't care. I don't—kiss me," Jon tells him. "How have we not done that? Kiss me," and one of them moves, or both of them, and they're kissing, Lovett's thighs straining enough that Jon can feel the muscles shaking. He'll let up in a minute, so Lovett won't be too sore later, but right now he needs Lovett's mouth, Lovett's arms around him. Lovett, taking his knot. Lovett, _loving_ him. 

"Tommy's gonna fucking murder us," Lovett whispers into Jon's mouth, and then they're both laughing, hard enough that Jon's grateful for the soundproofing.


End file.
